Nova Peak ❇ Tēnsha

she did not answer right away.
only watched him go—silent, steady, a flicker of something unreadable in her pale eyes. she listened to his footsteps until they were swallowed by stone and distance. only then did she move again, slow and precise.
not flowers, she muttered softly to no one. sage.
setting the fur aside, she shook it out once, twice, before stretching it across the flat rock to dry, smoothing the edges with practiced ease. the stream murmured nearby. she did not mind its company.
then the meat—clean cuts, salted with a careful hand. her jaw worked quietly, setting rhythm to the task. preserving what could be kept. no waste.
and when it was all laid in order, she sat back on her haunches, gazing toward the trees where he’d gone.
she hoped he would not bring death to their door. not yet.